Case Studies in Red
by TropicalStormEmily
Summary: Who exactly is Red John? He could be anyone, for all we know...  Series of 5 one-shots. Rated M for first chapter smut and violence. Characters should be Red John and whole CBI team.
1. Patrick Jane

This originally started as a Christmas present for iloveplotbunnies, and ended up as more of a project. This is the first of five installments, each portraying one of the CBI members as Red John. Some are lengthy, like this one. Others are very short, like the next one.

Rated M for smut and violence, as well as implied violence. Smut is not in every chapter, but definitely in this one.

For this installment, I used a psychological disorder and twisted it a bit to fit my literary purposes. So yes, I am aware, that it is not entirely accurate.

Happy Holidays! :]

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><p>The basement is dark, nearly black. His eyes are cat-like, so navigating the dark space isn't an issue. Her eyes have adjusted, but only to see vague outlines. A brighter light would reveal a damaged body and soul, with black eyes and bruises littering her body. Her faith is compromised, because all she knows right now is the feel of his hands on her skin. These thoughts plague her in the moments when he's not around.<p>

Her black pants are bunched around her knees; he's gotten violent for her. No longer performing his typical throat-slash, he's gotten creative and brutal with Teresa Lisbon. He's gone in further than he's ever gone before, (_literally_, she thinks, quite bitterly.) Her hips are sore from nights gone by, being pressed against a cold concrete floor, a wall, a chair, and taken advantage of, repeatedly. Her thighs are stained with blood, and other things she doesn't want to think about, shivering on the cold floor. Her hands are bound behind her, and used against her whenever he comes near. Every time he leaves, she's left with the terrible task of putting her dislocated shoulders back into their sockets.

She can't see a damn thing, save her hands an inch from her face, which is one of the reasons she can't leave. However, her legs are in such a bad state from crowbars, broken ankles, and destructive, delicious sex. She'd hate to admit that she gets aroused, but she can't help it when he's just _oh, so good_. Of course, she wants it to end, this sick, twisted captivation he has with her body and the numerous ways in which he can mutilate it. If she could get up, she could maybe try to feel against the walls for a door. When he leaves, she's usually on the floor, out cold, or eyes swimming too badly with the fireworks of orgasm still glittering behind her eyelids to notice where he goes.

Her legs don't really work anymore. She's tried to stand up once or twice. The first, she made it about two steps before she collapsed. The second time, all she saw was a muddy green fog encroaching on her vision, and she blacked out with pain. Coming to herself after that wasn't fun, because he was inside her and the first thing she felt when she woke up was his hand inside her, twitching and making her moan uncontrollably, against her will.

Now, she hears soft footsteps and then feels a warm hand on her thigh. She shudders at the temperature; it's such a difference from the numbing cold which seeps through the concrete, chilling her to her core. It's almost as if she shudders in to his hand. He chuckles, feeling her need for warmth radiate off of her, as she shivers violently beneath his palm.

He's more than happy to oblige.

Strong, smooth hands spread her bruised thighs, and she whimpers. All she can do is mouth the word "no," in an attempt for him to stop. Her voice is sore from a week of screaming and crying, a strong woman finally at her breaking point. But half of her wants him to keep going, needs the warmth of human flesh against her skin, needs whatever contact she can get. She's sensory deprived, partially starved, stuck in this basement.

Her hips twitch in pain as he spreads her legs apart, and runs his hands up to her waist. She lays partially propped up against some sack against the wall, she assumes it's sand or something equally as heavy. Her legs are slightly lower than her torso, giving him ample room to squat down in front of her, lightly caressing her waist, his breath hovering against her lower stomach, and parts even lower.

She can only imagine the grin on his face as he slips into her opening. But _oh, shit _it's different this time, because it's not warm fingers, but it's his tongue, and he's licking at her, making her hips spasm, even though the pain and the numbing cold. He flicks the tip of his tongue back and forth against her clit, and her shudders become more violent. Her eyes glaze over in the darkness, and she throws her head back. For a moment she forgets where she is and can only be aroused by the talented mouth working at her wetness. The friction warms the very inside of her thighs, her wetness seeping a little down her leg. He slowly licks it away, leaving the cold air to chill the wetness left by his tongue.

He's enjoying her conflicted emotions. There's nothing he likes better now than watching her come, unwillingly. He revels in the fact that he can make her do his bidding, in any way he wishes. Of course, she's not quite there yet, she's fighting back the arousal today. In this situation, he's developed a way to torture her with her own need.

One of his arms rests along the length of her thigh; the other slowly slinks up her shirt to her stomach as he works her with his mouth. Suddenly he's so full inside her, and with one upward flick of the tip of his tongue, she actually finds enough voice to moan. Her breathing hitches, and then becomes progressively more rapid. His tongue makes small circles while still inside her, bringing her closer and closer. Just as she's about to burst with raging, terrible ecstasy, he stops. She's left huffing and twitching pathetically. He presses his hand to the inside of her thigh, and stops just short of where she needs it to be. Teresa actually shifts her hips towards his hand, and he laughs.

It's a deep throaty laugh. She only ever hears his voice when he wants something, when he's degrading her as much as possible.

"Ask me for it."

"Please," it's a quite plea, with a raspy voice, thick with unwanted desire. She wants to chase the arousal from her body, but can't seem to calm herself down.

"Beg." His voice is low, with laughter and amusement, as well as something darker. She whimpers, and starts to tear up. Pain and pleasure, all rolled up into one, course through her body.

"Please just finish it," she rasps out. She has no way to finish the job, with her hands bound behind her back, if he leaves. So it's better for him to finish the job and do what he will, rather than leave her there twitching, wanting, for the rest of the night. So she begs him, as loud as her voice can manage, to _please, just get it over with_. Her pleading voice is music to his ears, so he stands, and then lowers his body over hers while unzipping his trousers. They're suddenly on the floor, with his boxers, and he lowers himself just above her opening to rub in her wetness. Her lower body bucks at the friction, trying to sheath him in her wet folds, but he chuckles and draws back.

Teresa starts to quietly sob, all dignity and hope of escape gone. Even if she were to escape, how could she recover from this? Physically and mentally, she realizes she has been damaged beyond repair. As soon as her breathing slows, he jams himself inside her, trapping her with his hips, as if she could go anywhere. She hears a crack and thinks it might be a wrist or her elbow, fitted uncomfortable behind her, grinding against the hard surface. She feels him kick her pants all the way off her legs, still inside her. He stays like that, waits for her breathing to slow down again, and then begins to rhythmically pound into her. She comes in a wave of pleasure underneath him, bucking her hips in a way she didn't know possible, with all her bruises and broken bones.

But he's not done yet. He lays on top of her, still inside her, head buried near her neck, whispering terrible things in her ear. She can feel him inside her, as she spasms around him. Again, her breathing slows, and that's when he begins again. This time, it's not so hard for him to bring her to the brink, and only when she comes screaming, using the last of her voice, does he explode inside her.

She doesn't hear him when he leaves the room, she's too focused on the warmth between her thighs, and holding on to the little body heat she has been given. He silently picks up his trousers and leaves, with a smile on his face, one she can't see through the darkness.

In her mind, she tries to make him a monster. But it's hard to dehumanize something so male and something that can torment her so easily with her own body, her own pleasure. He can use her, and make her want him to finish it. He gets to her in a way no one ever has before.

She's broken, in every sense of the word. Left to her own devices now, edges of pleasure fading and crumbling, she tries to bring her shaking knees up to her torso. She does so as slowly as possible, attempting to keep the pain at bay. Her eyes are fighting back tears now, trying to be strong for herself, if no one else.

You want an ID on the murderer, on our dearest Red John, the man that's been abusing her for days now? Yeah, sure, she could give it to you. She knows his name, could outline his history. She knows where he lives; she's in his basement now. It's a stronghold, but she knows exactly where she is. She knows the town, the street, the address.

She's been in this house before, been through the rooms, knows what's upstairs, and on the second floor. There's a bedroom up there, with only a mattress, thin sheets and a blanket. On the wall in that bedroom is a red smiley face, painted in blood.

That's what triggers the DID, (Dissociative Identity Disorder, that is.) Or at least, that's her best guess. For she's in the house of Patrick Jane, Red John. He's been searching for himself for years, not remembering his misdeeds, as soon as he returns home. He's never known, still doesn't realize he's killed his own child and wife.

He doesn't know her. Red John doesn't know her like Patrick does. When he's Patrick Jane, the key to the basement is lost and he can't be bothered to find it, he doesn't need anything down there anyways. (Isn't quite sure what's down there, actually.) He joins in the search for his wonderful Lisbon, and there's a powerful block on his mind, preventing himself from learning the truth about his other identity. It would destroy him, and his brain can't let that happen. It saved him by splitting his consciousness in two, and continues to save him by separating the two.

Hours later, Teresa hears footsteps on stairs, and finally hears a light click. She shuts her eyes, but can see the brightness through her eyelids. After a few moments, she slowly opens them to the dim light, which seems like a thousand suns after darkness for a week. She sees blonde hair and a three-piece suit standing at the foot of some stairs, with a knife and a bucket, a dark and maniacal grin on his face.

He's come for her, and she knows this is the end. She says her goodbyes quietly in her head as she says her shaking prayers aloud.

They never do find her mangled body.


	2. Wayne Rigsby

Let me preface this by reminding you, these chapters are non sequitur. Each stands alone, each is a separate "case study." So, here is the second installment. I'll post it now, and get to writing the third one, which should be up tomorrow!

Thanks for reading, hope you're enjoying. This one's quite a bit shorter, and almost as dark.

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><p>Coming out of work for the night into the wet cold, he rolls up his rumpled shirt sleeves. He opens the black car door, turns the key in the ignition, turns on the headlights, laughs at the carelessly thrown poetry book on his passenger seat. <em>William Blake, <em>it says, on the front. As he drives away from CBI headquarters, he's still laughing.

He's good. He's better than good; he's brilliant. Brilliant, fantastic, genius Wayne Rigsby. You'd never know, seeing him at work. The ape he plays is all an act. Sometimes, it's fun for him. Fun to fool them all, the idiots. He has Patrick Jane, supposed mentalist, eating out of the palm of his hand. It's a real treat to be pulling one over on him.

He plans to keep up this silly charade forever. Until he grows tired of the blood, at least, (which will be never.) Nothing surpasses the adrenaline rush of slicing a throat, painting in blood. A real artist, working with his preferred medium. That's who he is when he kills, an artist.

His canvas varies. He likes walls, big fan of walls. There's nothing like an impromptu mural, a giant smiley face to bring cheer to a crime scene. They make him inwardly smile when he comes back a second time, with the team. Sometimes he even suggests that Van Pelt get out more, so he can stay behind while the other four go. That way, he doesn't have to conceal his glee.

He's a real Moriarty, evil genius, what you will. It would take no less to pull off something like this, after all. And these next few will be his crowning glory. However will the CBI fare when two of their own are taken from them? He has these so carefully planned, so meticulously thought-out, he won't be able to fail.

He drives and drives, for what's about two hours. He goes for dinner, by himself. Steak, medium-rare. Then, the gym. Weights and treadmill. Fight and flight, training to both. Then it's back in his car, and to his first mark.

He pulls up outside a townhouse, in a neighborhood he knows by heart and head. He smoothly presses his hair back and ditches his tie on the front seat. He tucks the book of poetry underneath the front seat for safe-keeping, and looks in the mirror.

Dark eyes stare back at him, unwavering and shadowy in the dusky light. He kills his headlights and steps out into the now light rain. He moves to his trunk and opens it with a light click of his hand. He can only see the light of the tv on inside, but knows she'll let him in, regardless of whether she was awake or sleeping.

Grace Van Pelt is not nearly as strong as she thinks, emotionally. Sure, she's recovering from Craig, but she'll welcome Wayne back with open arms. Of course she will, they did fit together rather nicely. Shame he was playing her worse than O'Loughlin was.

In his trunk is a crisp black case, which he opens. So many cleanly sheathed knives of varying sizes, his only real friends, the only possessions he truly cares about. He selects one of the smaller ones. Small, but sharp. He sticks it, still sheathed, into his waistband, and tucks his shirt in around it. In the dark, you'd never be able to tell.

He walks up to the door.

He knocks.

She answers.

She dies.


	3. Grace Van Pelt

Here's the next installment! Hope you're enjoying. This one is a bit longer, but not by much. The fourth one will probably be around this long, and the fifth should be more like the first part in length. :]

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><p>She's anything but careful. She's reckless, she drops hints, she entangles herself. For goodness sake, Patrick should know her intent by now, if no one else. Two of her past boyfriends have had it out for him. How does he think she meets these guys?<p>

Truth is, Grace Van Pelt attracts a certain sort of man…outside work. She's a different person when she leaves headquarters, heads back home. Or to her ranch house on the outskirts of town.

It wouldn't be too hard to figure her out. She leaves enough hints. God, the hair should be a dead giveaway. It couldn't get redder if she poured paint on it. She's a woman, sly and cunning, and manages to fly under the radar because of sheer dumb luck. Luck and genetics have given her the appearance of a naïve and young agent, trying to make a career in law enforcement.

She pushes just the right amount, asks Lisbon sometimes if she can get out a bit more. After all, sometimes it's her work they get to go admire at a crime scene. True, sometimes it's her father's, but-

Oh yes, her father. His name is John, if you didn't know. Dear Grace is in the family business, make of that what you will. Genetics has given her several things. She gets her slender, creamy, they-go-for-miles-in-a-miniskirt legs from her mother. Her lips as well. But the hair is all her father's, so, so red. Sometimes, she can't even tell when the blood is caked in her hair, and she finds herself in the CBI bathroom double, triple-checking her ends just to make sure.

It really took her no time at all to follow in her father's footsteps; she's never been too shaky about murder, or too squeamish to finish the job. When you're raised on certain principles, you accept them, willingly. Others are raised on "work and then play" and "eat your vegetables or you can't have dessert." Grace was raised on "cut here, or it'll spray," and "cut here if you want to spray paint the walls red." _That really was a fun lesson_, Grace muses, at her desk. She types away on a report that's due in a while.

The team is back from a particularly grisly Red John murder, with a young girl, and a larger than usual red smiley face on a sliding glass door. One of her father's. _Oh, wait 'till you see this one, Gracey, _he said, _it's something else._ Of course, the call can't be traced, as if she'd ever tell anyone about it, or let anyone hear her softly chuckle to herself.

Red John started out as a man, one man, Mr. John Van Pelt. The missus is supportive, of course, of her family's hobbies, though she does not partake. Their family doesn't make sense, but it works. They support each other in their endeavors, and in their hard times. And what more could you ask from a family? Who are you to judge them?

Grace smiles at a family photo on her desk, one from almost ten years ago. It was a morning-after thing, after a great kill. Her father had been to the Jane residence. They had beautiful pictures on their downstairs computer. Incriminating, sure, but beautiful. The morning after, they had all gone for breakfast to celebrate. It was an ethereal feeling, like floating. Being drunk, or being sleep deprived. Either way, everyone was giddy and happy, and it's one of her fondest memories. Family is something that happens in-between. You never know when the moments are going to crop up, but they always do.

Rigsby and Lisbon are in the kitchenette. Lisbon is making tea for Jane, who lies on his couch. Cho has already taken off for, surprisingly, a date. They haven't been too busy today; Wainwright had no qualms about letting him leave. Jane's probably fallen asleep since Lisbon left to get tea, and the CBI office is quiet.

Grace cracks her neck back and forth, rolls it around. She yawns, and begins to finish up her report. She thinks of the consultant, on his sofa, how easy it would be to just take him now. She could slit his throat silently, and be on her way. But _no,_ she has plans for him. _Real plans. Big plans_.

_Soon_.

She can hear faint whispers from the kitchenette, and gets up to hear better. She can just make out low sounds from two of her team members. She can hear her ex-lover ask a question of his boss.

"Have you ever wondered why she signs all of her notes with a smiley face?"

_Yes_, she grins, _soon_.


	4. Kimball Cho

__Sorry this took so long. It's the shortest one.  
>Enjoy!<p>

&Happy New Year!

ps- the last one is gonna be longer, but I also go back to school on Tuesday, so it'll be a while till I get the last part up! Damn winter session classes.

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><p><em>A throat, a knife.<em> He doesn't know what he's doing.

_Her blood, the wall._ He cowers back in horror.

His hands, they shake.

His voice catches in his throat, a wretched sob.

_What have I done?_

It's some sort of sick compulsion. He doesn't even enjoy it. Shouldn't serial killers enjoy their murders? Kimball Cho is a killer. By his own hand he's killed over thirty, mostly women. Every time, he's drawn to them. It's not something he plans, really. When people anger him, he will take revenge, yes. But only because they don't understand him.

He's not a typical murderer at all. He takes no pleasure in his work, would stop if he could.

But once he sees them, he has to get them alone. Once they're alone, he can't help but long for the release of blood from their flesh. It takes everything he has to even hesitate with the knife, but he always fails. The knife always rises in his hand and slits a throat before he can think again, or reason with himself.

He cries after every kill, is that normal? But still, he gets the hell out of there. He wants to stop, but not enough to lock himself up. If his team ever got wind of this…he doesn't think he could stand it. They would hate him, and he doesn't think he can handle it. It's not the jail, it's the judging faces of people who are supposed to be his friends. _They would hate me. I hate me._

His emotions run rampant when he kills. He tries to keep a lockdown on his emotions, but they slip through sometimes. It's most important he keep them in check at work, with people he cares about. So he will always make sure he's indifferent at work. He is loyal to the Bureau and loyal to his team. He is an effective agent.

But when he goes home, he's someone else completely. He's Red John. Most of the time, he can lock himself in his basement and just rage at the world. He can take all of his pent up anger and fear at the world and bash chairs against solid concrete walls. He can shoot nail guns into the floor, and he can scream all he wants. Most nights, this is enough.

Some nights, it is not. Some nights, he finds his way out of his house, on the road, into someone's house. Or abducting someone. Or stalking someone. Some nights, he takes a knife with him. On these nights, it's blood he needs, and blood he will take.

The morning after a kill is never good for him. Sometimes, his colleagues get a little too close. Sometimes, Cho gets a little too close to telling them.

"Lisbon, I-" he starts, early one morning, over coffee in the bullpen. She stands at the fridge, and turns around non-chalantly.

"Yeah, Cho?" she asks, furrowing her brow. Her voice is light, but inquisitive, with a hint of worry.

"Never mind." He takes another sip of his coffee.


	5. Teresa Lisbon

Oh, wow, sorry for the wait (if you even remember following this story.) I had a beta, (cough, AMBER) but I don't know where she is, so this is unedited. All the mistakes are completely mine!

Also, this is the last chapter.

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><p>She could say it all started out so innocently, but she'd be lying. So, so, completely lying.<p>

Criminal Justice 101, a smattering of law classes, a few extra-curriculars, and he's the only man that ever caught her eye. Four plus years at a pretentious California university, she'd made the money, and damnit, she was cashing in on what she'd rightfully earned. Still, not-so-little-anymore-Tess's eye is only caught by one man, and he sweeps her off her feet in all the right (wrong) ways.

Of course, he happened to be a professor of hers in her second year on campus. Teaching a mid-level criminal justice class, focusing on insanity and serial killers, she was instantly captivated. Looking back, she should have seen it coming. She was drawn to him like gravity. Professor Smith, first name John, (hair a dark reddish-brown, with gorgeous green eyes) was the one person who could spark her interest. Through three years, Tess took that and ran with it, farther than was appropriate and normal for a student-teacher relationship. Of course, he was a grad student when she met him, and the age difference wasn't too predominating, and she _deserved_ those grades, but still…

Office hours turned into dinner turned into "oh, just stay the night" turned into "I love you," all in the course of three years. It started very, very slowly. But it spiraled out of (or in to) control so very quick that Tess could never tell you when the slow stopped and the fast started. There was one night in her last year of undergrad when he finally introduces her to a world that she's always subconsciously presumed he's a part of. To teach a class like "Serial Killers and the Psychology of their Motives," you'd have to be a bit mad. Or, as it turns out, a lot more than a bit.

He's not at all surprised when she accepts who he really is. He's been priming her for this, for year. ECevn serial killers need love, companionship, someone to hold their other hand, the one without the dripping knife. Tess took his hand, and kissed him until the backs of his knees knocked against the soft mattress. In her mind she thought _I can fix him._ But you know, love doesn't fix everything.

Love doesn't fix murderers. It creates them.

First, she killed for him, to keep his secret. She was his TA at this point, leading a smaller discussion group. A student got a tad too close to the truth, and she silenced her forever. Her knees shook, and the tears streamed. John held her, stroking her hair, until she calmed down. He thanked her, kissed her, and Tess's emotional rollercoaster tracked upwards. It was hard to get over her first kill, a girl with hair so soft and blonde, a new, fresh student from the mid-west. Killing was tragic; taking a life was the highest offense. But soon enough, Tess took pleasure in it. She'd finish one of John's victims before he got home, and then he would laugh at her while she shrugged and gave him an innocent smile, red knife still dripping in her hand. He'd kiss the laughter from her mouth, and they'd carry on with their day as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

They were in love.

They were.

They were.

Love isn't enough. And for an up-and-coming law enforcement agent, who was slowly but surely rising in the ranks, Tess's love wasn't enough to satisfy her. She hungered for recognition, any recognition. She began to take on more of John's kills, and they became a team, rather than a serial killer and his girlfriend-gone-assistant. Soon enough, he was the one who flanked her, who fed her blood lust, who catered to her every whim. John was so enthralled to share this with someone who understood him, he was only too happy to let her take the reins for a while.

Tess was not content with taking the reins; she wanted to kill the horse.

xxx

_Coffee cups, light kisses on the couch, television humming softly in the dusky light. Tess giggles, the taste of love and laughter still blissfully gracing her face. But then upon a glance at the television interview, she sits back, frowning at the man on the screen. His words turn her to rage, but his face turns something low in her stomach, and she knows what she wants. A soft click on the remote with dark eyes is all it takes._

_She contemplates having John help her, but dismisses the idea with ever-colder eyes. This is hers and she wants it for herself._

_She kills John, and takes his name. They never notice the difference in the smiley faces, though she makes hers a tad larger and rounder than he ever did. She'll always notice the difference with a bit of a melancholic attitude, but the authorities never will._

_Put your best experts on it._

_Can't catch Tess._

xxx

That's the night she changes everything with three deaths, and turns the tables in her favor. The next several months pass by in a whirlwind, and without a hitch. She's the leader of her team. She's got a consultant. He's beautiful, with golden curly hair, and his damaged psyche. He is freshly released from a psychiatric hospital.

They call her Teresa, now.

She gets fresh blood on her team, a young woman with such fiery red hair, and she's reminded of what seems like long ago.

Teresa grows up, grows into her role further than imaginable.

She waits, she kills, she waits more. It's like flicking a switch between two personalities, and she's more in control of herself than ever. Things spiral in and out of focus, but Teresa is always four, sometimes six steps ahead. She knows both sides of the chess board, so it's not particularly difficult for her.

She even has The Mentalist fooled (he warrants capitalization, even if he can't see though her.) This gives her a certain brand of confidence, a devil-may-care attitude, and a particular penchant for the taste of blood. It's so much sweeter, now that she can outwit the (not) psychic, who unravels almost each and every scene he's brought to.

He's so deep in, and he's gotten to an accomplice or two of hers. He's gotten just as far as she's let him. She let him do her dirty work, let him dispose of the man she no longer has a use for. Craig gets too close to the truth, and she can't let him, so she manipulates those events as well.

Honestly, there is no 'Red John' anymore. Teresa is the orchestrator, yet she was not the first. Patrick Jane has no idea the one he seeks revenge with, and the true 'Red John' are not the same.

One day, Teresa begins to resent the fact that she took his name, when she could've had her own. It matters little though, she knows things are drawing to a close. She can feel it as sturdy as she feels the ground beneath her feet (steady, all these years) and as surely as the slick feel of blood between her fingers (heavenly, though it was not always.) _Gravity is an interesting concept_, she muses, as she feels the pull of Patrick Jane, the force which has sent her into a deluded orbit. He nods at her at the end of a work day once, and she smiles shyly at him. He pauses, and quirks the corners of his mouth. He comes home with her, or rather, they drive separately and reconvene at her doorstep, silently. She thinks he still doesn't realize, until they fall into bed together.

"Teresa," his words whisper over her neck, and she shivers. Sweaty hands pull off clothes, and she lets him cover her body, slowly sliding into her. She grips the back of his neck, and bucks her hips up into him with a wicked grin. He finds his release moments before she does, and they fall into a tangle in between her sheets. She has let him lead her, something even Tess never did, let alone Agent Teresa.

She swears she's not in love with him, because what she has is closer to madness and obsession. Still, lying like this with his soft lips placing open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, she can pretend. She can pretend that she's not who she is. She can close her eyes and pretend she's in college again, falling in love with John, not yet succumbing to her darkest fantasies. When she opens her eyes to Patrick Jane, she feels something like regret.

What could her life have been?

Surely she could not have had him any other way. Could she?

"What?" he asks her, with a slight tremor in her voice.

"Nothing. Thinking," Teresa chuckles a bit as he pillows his head on her shoulder. Her fingers rake through his hair lazily, comforting and almost protective. She fleetingly realizes her unconscious action to protect this man, and nearly scoffs at herself when she realizes she's trying to protect him from herself.

"Penny for your thoughts?" She can feel his vocal chords tremble against her skin, and her fingers still in his hair. She exhales softly.

"Crime, pain, blood, love. The usual." Her voice is softer than she'd like, but firmer than she thought she could make it.

"Love?" He raises himself off her, to search her face.

"Yes. Silly, isn't it?" Her voice almost contorts into a sneer. He contemplates her for a long minute. She thinks of telling him, but suspects he already knows, somewhere deep in that magnificent brain of his. He's buried away all of the information he needs to make the necessary connections. He hasn't connected the dots, because to do so would make the past several years of his life a wash. It would be his undoing

"What a defense mechanism," he muses, "such a human construct." His eyes are something short of sparkling as he searches her face for an answer to all his unasked questions. When she whispers in his ear, though, his blood curdles and runs cold.

"The best defense mechanisms, though," she purrs, "are the ones we don't realize we've constructed." Her nails lightly scrape across his neck, and he tenses above her. He shifts, but is not quick enough for her. She has a knife to his throat before he can confront her, can even begin to understand.

That is the way of things, after all, unfinished and unknown. Teresa never expected anything less. But as she looks at his pale skin, she thinks the end hurts a bit more than she imagined. She lays him on her bed. He looks more peaceful in death than she ever saw him alive.

For some reason, this hurts as well. With two fingers, not gloved this time, she draws a face on the wall above her head. She neatly swipes a circle and dabs the eyes. Teresa returns her fingers to his throat for more blood, and upon a moment's consideration, swipes an arc inside the circle. The face frowns at her, but her eyes only stare back blankly. It's fitting, she supposes, to be displeased at the culmination of what has been her existence for many years.

Still, she washes her hands (metaphorically and literally) and dresses for the cool California night before she calmly walks out of the building. She wouldn't sleep tonight anyways, not with a dead man in her bed and her own mark above her headboard. So Teresa wraps her arms around her torso and looks up at the sky. The stars seem dimmer tonight. _The bridge isn't far, _she thinks. She wonders how falling through the air would feel, if the water would be cool and soothing against her heated skin. What has she to live for? They will surely come for her soon. She could easily join Patrick in his fate before they find her. Still, she walks in the other direction. Ever the survivor, Tess.

As she rambles along the road, delusions overtake her. They're a product of her overactive imagination, and subsequent inability to change past decisions. She wishes for control, and can only grasp it in the blessedness of her own mind. Tess wishes for youth again, to change her decisions so she ends up happy. Because if her lifestyle has led to this emptiness and coldness, then she wants to change it.

Suddenly she's twenty again, and yet still walking alone along the cold road. John appears beside her and takes her hand. She threads their fingers together. She thinks of lost love, of red smiley faces, and wonders if she was ever truly in love with anyone but herself.

Still, she and her delusion walk hand in hand until the sirens catch up with her, just before dawn.


End file.
